


Bought and Paid For

by mystiri1



Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: Anal Sex, Community: monthly_kink, M/M, Oral Sex, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-01
Updated: 2010-05-01
Packaged: 2017-10-09 05:54:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/83746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mystiri1/pseuds/mystiri1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Schuldig knows he looks like a whore, and he has no problems with that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bought and Paid For

The bar is rather seedy-looking, but then, that's how Schuldig likes it.

A couple of tired-looking women stand at one end, high heels and short skirts, brightly painted make-up. A few words pass between them, and then one of them crosses to where a loud group of men are drinking at a table. She leans over, flirts a bit, and chooses her target. There are catcalls and jeers as she leads him away, heading for a back room, and he looks smug, like a conquering hero. Schuldig, who can hear exactly what she's thinking right now, just laughs.

He wonders if the john would be so smug if he knew she picked him because she thinks he looks like he's not drunk enough to have trouble getting it up, and young enough to come quickly. She's also thinking her feet hurt, and that next time, she's wearing shorter heels.

A couple of rough-looking bikers are playing pool at the other end of the room. One of them looks in Schuldig's direction and sneers. Even from here, Schuldig can hear the words in his head, as clearly as if the man stood beside him. _'Fucking fag.'_

Schuldig grins. He knows how he looks. He has make-up on, too, his eyes lined and just a little gloss on his lips to make them look wet. His boots have heels, low ones, but enough that to add a slight sway when he walks. Not that he needs it to draw attention to his ass in these pants. They're low, painted on, and shiny black. The tee is ripped, too tight and too short, little flashes of skin showing here and there, and most of his belly exposed. His hair is an eye-catching red, although not from a bottle. He looks very much like one of those ladies at the end of the bar, if of a different gender.

He plants a fantasy in the man's head, of being bent over the table by one of his fellow players and fucked hard from behind. Loving every minute of it, of course. He watches the man sway slightly, feels the rush of his orgasm, and lets go. “You okay?” someone asks, and the man looks up to see the exact same man staring at him in concern. He stammers something as a wet stain spreads across the crotch of his jeans, and rushes out, dropping the cue in his haste to leave.

Schuldig snickers. “Damn, now I need a cigarette.”

He turns back to the bar and lights up. He's just enjoying the first drag when a voice behind him asks, “How much?”

Schuldig pouts slightly as he stubs the cigarette out, but turns to his customer and gives him a sultry look-over. Black hair, neatly combed, cool blue eyes behind clear lenses, and an expensive suit. Not someone who belongs here – unless, of course, they're looking for something. “Depends on what you want me to do,” he smirks. “Back room?”

The john shakes his head. “Outside.”

They end up in an alley beside the bar. It's far from clean, and the ground is wet, but Schuldig sinks to his knees as the man peels off several notes and hands them to him. The rasp of the zipper is loud with only the muted sounds of the bar and the occasional rush of tires on rain-slick concrete to compete. Schuldig's a little disappointed – he thought their fearless leader was wound tighter than a simple blow-job would satisfy – but he strokes the hardening length once, then swallows it down.

The wet sounds of sucking are delightfully obscene. There's little noise from the man above him, but one hand fists his hair, directing him, pushing him further down. He reaches out, but Brad's thoughts are the usual blank wall, with only the surface thoughts and emotions readily apparent. It's frustrating, but gives him enough warning that he's not really surprised when he's roughly yanked back.

“I changed my mind. I'm going to fuck you after all.” He hands Schuldig more cash.

Schuldig tucks it into the top of his boot, and gets to his feet. He fishes a foil packet from a pocket in the front of his pants, his fingers brushing his own erection in the process, and tears it open. He smooths the condom along the hard length of flesh that juts from tailored silk, while Brad looks on dispassionately. He should have done it earlier – would've, if it had been anyone but Brad, but he hates the taste of latex. Then, teasingly, he unzips his own fly, and starts easing the tight pants down.

Apparently he's taking too long, because he finds himself roughly turned and pushed against the wall, pants shoved down to his thighs. With no more preparation than that, Brad pushes in. Schuldig's breath hisses between his teeth. It hurts, but it's the painful burn of being stretched, not torn, the friction that comes from not quite enough lubrication.

It's fast and hard. The only place Brad even touches Schuldig is the harsh grip on his hips and the slap of flesh against flesh as his cock hilts inside him. No consideration, because that's not what this is about; every now and then, Schuldig feels it as his prostate is struck, but it's only accidental, and he's left to take his cock in his own fist and jerk himself off.

Despite knowing it's useless, he reaches out again, brushes against Brad's shields. Still nothing, just the physical sensations of tightness around his cock, building tension. Schuldig could be anybody, a nameless, faceless whore rather than a member of his own team. Schuldig pictures that for a moment: Brad Crawford fucking a whore in a nasty back alley while he watches, and it's hot. But then he'd have to kill the whore afterwards, nice and slow, because Brad is his, even if the man won't admit it, and that's a bit too much like work.

With one last pump of his hips inside him and a convulsive shudder, Brad comes. It startles Schuldig, and he jerks his cock harder in search of his own orgasm. He's too slow. Crawford has already pulled out by the time hot fluid spills over his fingers, and he gives a small whine of disappointment at the empty feeling.

He wipes his hand on the already grimy wall, and fastens his pants. He's not surprised that Brad is once again looking immaculate, his pants fastened, the rich fabric of his jacket laying in straight lines. He watches as manicured fingers slide the knot of the tie up, just a little, then Brad turns around and walks away without another word.

For all that he's a mind-reader, Schuldig doesn't know why Brad prefers his sex bought and paid for when he could be getting it for free. Or why he refuses to engage in any kind of sexual behaviour back in the apartment they all share. He reaches down and pulls out the money Brad gave him. The large notes were far more than any whore in this part of town would ever command, but then, that's just it, isn't it? Brad always finds Schuldig when he goes out like this, and for that, the pre-cog has to be looking.

And if any slut would do, he wouldn't be looking.

Whistling, Schuldig heads off to buy himself some more cigarettes.


End file.
